


Curiosity Killed the Cat

by greenapricot



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-06
Updated: 2004-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-01 08:05:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5198438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenapricot/pseuds/greenapricot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Curiosity killed the cat. Lions, it turns out, aren’t much different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curiosity Killed the Cat

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in 2004. Takes place during 6th year but written before HBP, a time before Louis Cordice was cast as Blaise when my headcanon Blaise was played by a young Jonathan Rhys-Meyers.

Red and gold. Bushy brown hair. Red hair. Unkempt black hair. Glasses and green eyes and. Glare. 

Advance. Stand straight. Insult. Insult. Insult. Maybe a hex or two. A growl from the goons. Retreat. 

Repeat. 

Blaise watches from the periphery. There is more he can see; reading between the lines. Nothing is more transparent than someone desperately fighting their own impulses.

 

:::

 

One step down a disused corridor and it just happens that two cloak shrouded figures pass in the pale moonlight. 

One glance. One twist of the neck. Blink of the eye. An almost-grin, a nod of acknowledgement. The barest hint of a wink. 

There. 

But not there. Then disappearing back against silver dust shrouded stone with shadows that grow and flow with the movement of arm, leg, cloak. Footprints in dust as heavy and silent as thoughts long forgotten; everything tinted mercury silver under the watch of the moon.

 

:::

 

Leaving it be is, of course, the best course of action; so naturally, Harry goes back in search of the corridor, veiled in cobwebs and grey memories, and by extension, an answer. 

A question. 

Curiosity killed the cat. Lions, it turns out, aren’t much different. 

 

:::

 

A day, two days? a week? (the problem with focusing all of one’s attention on one thing is that all else falls by the wayside) later in the long silence of midnight he once again stands in the dust. 

Ghost dust. Not in that the dust itself is a ghost but that it gives a silvery shimmering not there air to everything it coats and touches, everything around it. At first look, glance (he really ought to be more observant) the corridor is empty save for the dust, which seems about to take on a life of its own. 

Then it does. 

Shape emerges from shadows, dark and possibly shadow itself, advancing steadily; nondescript, but strangely sinister all the same. Harry fights the urge to take a step back. He can feel the gaze boring into him before Blaise is close enough – far enough into the almost light of moon through dirty glass – to see just how dark those eyes really are. 

Blaise looks at him, through him, like he might make a suitable meal. Like it’s not Harry he’s looking at at all but what Harry can give him. Or, more accurately, what he can take from Harry; which way he’ll lean when pushed and how far he’ll bend before he breaks. 

Blaise sneers and Harry, despite the fact that he spends so much time with Ron who is a good six inches taller that he is, suddenly feels very short. He can’t seem to get his feet to move under that piercing gaze. 

Blaise grabs Harry’s robe, shirt, tie, throat. Fingers burn, not with the pressure on his neck, which is surprisingly gentle, but the heat of flesh on flesh.

Blaise feels, “What do you want, Zabini?” more than hears it; vibration against fingers and the movement of adam’s apple against palm. He squeezes a bit tighter.

“I don’t usually do this sort of thing,” he turns his head, raises an eyebrow; a predator sizing up his next victim, “but this has gone too far. You’re getting in the way.”

“What?” half choked.

“Draco.”

...

Draco. 

Not Malfoy, but Draco. 

The name, and the implication hanging heavily off it’s back like wet wool, hit Harry like a slap in the face. 

Is it possible for one’s actions to be burned into the skin? Is his skin marked where fingers have moved across his chest? His stomach? His thigh? Are the brands pale like the hands that created them or red like the heat that floods his body at the sight of hooded grey eyes and tongue on thin lips? Like the heat of the hand that is still encircling his throat. 

Is it possible that Blaise really is looking through him, into him?

Is Blaise watching as the previous night flickers through Harry’s mind. Limbs entwined, pale pale tan. Writhing like charmed snakes on the edge of control; moving as though compelled. Bent on squeezing the life from each other, or into each other (the line is too thin to discern). Skin against skin and the hiss of breath trying to hold back a moan. Greedy hands grasping at hip, arse, cock, slick with sweat and heat and – 

...

Stars blossom, blue and black, as Harry’s head connects sharply with stone. 

Apparently Blaise had been saying something. 

Fingers flex against Harry’s throat. Blaise leans in and, “Do I make myself clear?” Half growl, half hiss, and the words are hot and thick and too close as they brush against his ear.

And, no, of course his skin is not marked. And Blaise cannot see his thoughts. 

And Harry is not disappointed when the fingers around his neck relax and start to pull away. And he does not lean into the touch as those same fingers work their way into his shirt and trace his collar bone. A hissing moan does not escape his lips as they next appear at the waistband of his trousers. Or as tongue traces jaw. Or as teeth pierce his earlobe and he tastes his own blood on Blaise’s lips.


End file.
